A Wrinkle in Rhyme
by Linda Rhaldeen
Summary: Volunteer Fighting DiseaseCouncil Elderess story I wrote for Weird Ship Week. Come to think of it, it's more of an obscure ship than a weird one.


"…_and they saw a man with a guitar making friends with a woman in a crow-shaped hat…"_  
-TPP pg. 335

I adjusted my council hat and wiped my brow, hoping the trial wouldn't take too much longer. It's not that I wasn't enjoying the trial, though I much preferred the public executions that took place in the village of VFD. It was just that my stamina wasn't what it used to be, and I was getting tired. I'd taken my place on the council nearly 50 years ago, and I'd been elderly then. I mean, I liked to think of myself as a robust person, but I hardly be expected to have as much energy as these people in the prime of life.

The Baudelaire orphans were droning on, with an occasional word or two from a justice, and the combination of their voices, the heat of the lobby, and the comforting darkness of the blindfold all combined until I found myself nodding off. I started awake quickly. It wouldn't do to be caught sleeping during a session of high court.

I must have dozed off again, though, because the next thing I knew, people around me were yelling. Had the justices reached a verdict? But no, someone uncomfortable close to my ear kept yelling 'capture the Baudelaire butchers!', and someone else yelled something about Olaf, and then everything melted into confusion. People pushed and shoved, and I was jostled around helplessly until in desperation I croaked out a plea for help. "Is there someone here that's willing to help out a council elder?"

I thought no one heard at first, but then something long and smooth poked me in the arm. I let out a yelp. "Sorry!" a friendly male voice said. "I really didn't mean to poke you with my guitar!"

It was a young voice; the man was probably in his 20s or 30s. I felt his hand touch my forehead, travel down my face to my nose, and then pull away quickly. "I'm truly sorry, sister. I just didn't see you – well, that's a silly thing to say. Neither of us can see, actually!" And he laughed nervously.

I had half a mind to give the young whippersnapper a piece of my mind, but something stopped me. Instead, my toothless mouth gaped in surprise. "Sister? Somehow, I think I'm a bit old to-"

"No, no," he laughed. "That's what I call everyone! Well, all women, at least. I call men 'brother', but you know what I mean. It makes me feel like we're all working towards a common cause! You know, like we're all one big happy family!"

Family. I hadn't thought about family in ages. My parents and siblings had died long, long ago, and I've never married or started a family of my own. Never wanted to, really. And yet thinking of this young man as family seemed strangely comforting. I coughed, then replied. "Why, you certainly seem like a nice young man. What's your name? Mine is-"

"Oh, I don't bother with names. In fact, I don't think I even remember my name! Just Brother will do fine. Say, that sounds like a nasty cough. I should sing you the Volunteers Fighting Disease song, and you'll feel better in no time!" I nodded, and then remembered he was wearing a blindfold.

He shuffled around for a bit, then called from a short distance away. "Hey, I think I've found a bench! I'll help you over here, so we can sit down!" He reached out wildly until his hands met mine, and then expertly maneuvered me to the bench. I sat down, and my creaking knees called out in thanks. Then he was rummaging around again, trying to find his guitar. 

Suddenly he slipped and fell, and his bearded cheek brushed against mine. "R-really sorry, sister," he stammered, and picked himself up again. Soon, I heard the twanging sound of a guitar string being plucked, slightly off-key. Several more strings were plucked, each sounding progressively worse than the first. "It looks like I'm not going to be able to play this guitar while blindfolded," he said sadly.

"That's all right," I soothed. "I'm sure you'll sound wonderful without it." I wasn't quite sure why I said that. I'd never particularly liked music or singing. But that didn't seem to matter right now.

"That's right, we have to stay cheerful. Good for you, thinking positively. After all, cheerfulness is the most effective tool against sickness." He sat down next to me on the bench, and I felt a sort of excitement at feeling the warmth of his body so close to mine. I'd never felt excitement quite like this before, and wasn't quite sure what to make of it.

The man cleared his throat and began to sing. "We are Volunteers Fighting Disease, and we're happy all day long. If someone said that we were sad that person would be…" he trailed off.

"What?" I asked him. "Don't stop now, that was wonderful!"

"It's just…this song just seems so generic. I-I think I want to write a song just for you. This is going to sound really strange, but I feel embarrassed around you, and at the same time, happier than I've ever felt before. Strange, isn't it?"

"Not so strange. I feel the same way…brother."

He scooted closer.

Suddenly, a loud ding startled me from the reverie of our comfortable silence, and I remembered all the people rushing about the room. The voices of the Baudelaires carried across the room. "Fire! Fire, you have to believe us! Everyone, get to the nearest exit immediately!"

"Should we believe them?" I asked him.

Nothing. He didn't seem to hear me. I got the strange impression that he hadn't heard anything the Baudelaires had said, either.

I tapped him on the shoulder. "Brother, should we believe the Baudelaires?"

"Huh? Oh…what's this about the Baudelaires?"

"They just came here, I think through the elevator. They were shouting something about a fire."

"Fire! That's it! Thank you, sister!"

Huh? I started to ask what in the world he was talking about, but he kindly quieted me. "It's all right, sister. You just gave me the perfect rhyme."

I smiled, and snuggled close. He began to sing. We sat close together while I listened to him sing, and it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever heard. After he finished, we lapsed into silence again.

Then I noticed the eerie silence around us. All the panicked blindfolded people had disappeared. There was another noise, quiet at first but getting louder as time went on. It was a crackling noise that I couldn't identify. The crackle transformed into a roar, and the room began to heat up. I began to panic as one word rushed to my mind: fire.

"FIRE!" I shouted. "It's a fire!"

"Fire?" he asked. "Oh no, I have to get you out of here!" he dropped his guitar and held me in his large, strong arms. He stumbled around, trying to find an exit, as the sound of the roaring fire grew louder and louder. He managed to reach an elevator, and desperately pressed the button, then whispered something to me. "Whatever happens, I want you to know this: I love you, sister."

The fire roared threateningly, and the floor cracked, threatening to give way. I blacked out after that, but I'm told that the volunteer fire department managed to find me, just outside the hotel. The Volunteer Fighting Disease was nowhere to be found, and it's suspected that he perished in the fire. Wherever he is, I'll never forget his song he composed for me. He called it "A Wrinkle in Rhyme."


End file.
